Party for the End of the World
by Zachariah Claypole White
You were beautiful when the world ended: half-asleep, fingers curled into the lake’s gray sand. Your breath, soft and damp, pressed against my neck. I can’t remember what we said, or even if we tried to speak. When the sky changed, I saw heat lighting, saw the storms of my childhood roll across endless trees, felt the sound engulf us. Windows shattered.
The world emptied.
You’re dead, have been for two weeks, maybe three. I try to keep track, but the days fade together, become as pointless as headstones.
We had to improvise; you know—when we marked the graves. We started with oak branches. The first were sanded down real nice and etched with names. If we didn’t know a name, we pulled one out of our asses. Jack Torrance is buried near my window. Still makes me laugh. Thing was… everyone kept dying.
We switched to initials, tried to keep up. That lasted a few days. Eventually, we stopped pretending it mattered and used twigs, stuck deep into the clay. Until there was no one left to gather branches or shovel a half-decent grave.
I don’t remember where we buried you.
I don’t remember if we marked the ground.
I hope we did.
The world emptied.
You’re dead, have been for two weeks, maybe three. I try to keep track, but the days fade together, become as pointless as headstones.
We had to improvise; you know—when we marked the graves. We started with oak branches. The first were sanded down real nice and etched with names. If we didn’t know a name, we pulled one out of our asses. Jack Torrance is buried near my window. Still makes me laugh. Thing was… everyone kept dying.
We switched to initials, tried to keep up. That lasted a few days. Eventually, we stopped pretending it mattered and used twigs, stuck deep into the clay. Until there was no one left to gather branches or shovel a half-decent grave.
I don’t remember where we buried you.
I don’t remember if we marked the ground.
I hope we did.
In the dorm basement, Rob pours shots. Hardly anyone drinks them, but the bastard lines them up anyway. Soon they cover the plywood counter. When the glasses run out, Rob switches to tiny plastic cups, the ones with little measurements on the side for cough syrup. I try to drink as many as I can. Feels like I’m being helpful.
You remember Rob, right? Full-ride scholarship, decent guy. Used to spend hours in the library, memorizing chemicals, parasites, and anything with a name too long to pronounce. Probably sees the periodic table when he closes his eyes. And what did that get him? A prime gig as a bartender for the apocalypse. Yup. Sounds about right.
Judy and I sit at the bar, mainlining whatever he hands us.
“You want to dance?” she says.
“Three.” I pause. “Four more drinks, then I’m all yours.” I grin. At least, I think I do. My lips are rubber cement, crawling back against my jaw.
I’m sorry. I know how you felt about Judy, how I felt about her. But you’re dead—two weeks, maybe three—and I can’t find your grave and the music’s too loud and the tequila or vodka or watered-down whatever-the-fuck tastes of nothing. And that leaves Judy. I wish it could be someone else, but pickings are slim. Slimmer if you don’t go for the dead ones. That was a joke. Mostly.
Time moves slowly in the basement; trapped down here with the rest of us and just as useless. Rob measures out shots. The mountain of batteries for his shit speaker erodes to anemic foothills scattered along the floor. I think of you, how you always kept an extra pair of socks in your bag—for emergencies. Funny, what haunts you at the end.
Judy and I dance. She grinds up against my cock, and I slide my fingers under her shirt. A dozen or so people are left in the basement. Two are vomiting. That happens more and more. One guy, I think he might have been in the honors program, sits in the corner crying. No one comforts him. Hell, why would they?
“Fuck me?” Judy bites my ear.
In the half-light, with Rob’s liquor gnawing at my vision, I can almost believe she’s you. I nod.
On the second floor, we find an open room. It’s not like housing is in high demand, but most of the doors are locked. No one bothers to force them. The smell reminds us who’s inside—who stopped waiting to die.
The bed is dirty, recently used. Desperate minds think alike, huh? The sheets are bright blue, same as yours, same as the sky used to be. Who lived in this room? Whoever he was, he’s dead. Lying in dust and ash-mud, with his bright blue sheets left to us, and the luckless asshole who uses them next.
I imagine Rob, two floors beneath us, lining up glasses long after the alcohol is gone, pilling them a million high, till the basement disappears, and each cup fills with forgotten names.
Judy straddles me, and I push into her, slipping from one oblivion to another. I roll my tongue along her bleeding gums, taste coppery breath on our lips, feel her sigh on my neck. I sob into her matted hair. She doesn’t speak.
Beyond the window, clouds like untouched cities fill the horizon. Somewhere, birds hover above a lake’s gray shore.
It is still beautiful.
Even now.
You remember Rob, right? Full-ride scholarship, decent guy. Used to spend hours in the library, memorizing chemicals, parasites, and anything with a name too long to pronounce. Probably sees the periodic table when he closes his eyes. And what did that get him? A prime gig as a bartender for the apocalypse. Yup. Sounds about right.
Judy and I sit at the bar, mainlining whatever he hands us.
“You want to dance?” she says.
“Three.” I pause. “Four more drinks, then I’m all yours.” I grin. At least, I think I do. My lips are rubber cement, crawling back against my jaw.
I’m sorry. I know how you felt about Judy, how I felt about her. But you’re dead—two weeks, maybe three—and I can’t find your grave and the music’s too loud and the tequila or vodka or watered-down whatever-the-fuck tastes of nothing. And that leaves Judy. I wish it could be someone else, but pickings are slim. Slimmer if you don’t go for the dead ones. That was a joke. Mostly.
Time moves slowly in the basement; trapped down here with the rest of us and just as useless. Rob measures out shots. The mountain of batteries for his shit speaker erodes to anemic foothills scattered along the floor. I think of you, how you always kept an extra pair of socks in your bag—for emergencies. Funny, what haunts you at the end.
Judy and I dance. She grinds up against my cock, and I slide my fingers under her shirt. A dozen or so people are left in the basement. Two are vomiting. That happens more and more. One guy, I think he might have been in the honors program, sits in the corner crying. No one comforts him. Hell, why would they?
“Fuck me?” Judy bites my ear.
In the half-light, with Rob’s liquor gnawing at my vision, I can almost believe she’s you. I nod.
On the second floor, we find an open room. It’s not like housing is in high demand, but most of the doors are locked. No one bothers to force them. The smell reminds us who’s inside—who stopped waiting to die.
The bed is dirty, recently used. Desperate minds think alike, huh? The sheets are bright blue, same as yours, same as the sky used to be. Who lived in this room? Whoever he was, he’s dead. Lying in dust and ash-mud, with his bright blue sheets left to us, and the luckless asshole who uses them next.
I imagine Rob, two floors beneath us, lining up glasses long after the alcohol is gone, pilling them a million high, till the basement disappears, and each cup fills with forgotten names.
Judy straddles me, and I push into her, slipping from one oblivion to another. I roll my tongue along her bleeding gums, taste coppery breath on our lips, feel her sigh on my neck. I sob into her matted hair. She doesn’t speak.
Beyond the window, clouds like untouched cities fill the horizon. Somewhere, birds hover above a lake’s gray shore.
It is still beautiful.
Even now.
Zachariah Claypole White lives in Chapel Hill, North Carolina where he manages the independent bookstore Flyleaf Books. He graduated from Oberlin College in 2017 with a major in creative writing and a minor in English literature. His work has appeared in numerous publications, including Scalawag, Sunspot Literary Journal, and Toho Journal Online, and is forthcoming from Sand Hills Literary Magazine. He was long-listed for Palette Poetry’s 2020 Emerging Poetry Prize. Zachariah uses writing to navigate his lifelong struggle with anxiety, depression, and OCD.